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His hair is fuzzy and deep grey, lighter segments streak away from his face. His glasses are always on his nose, thick and basically made of crystals, the lenses magnifying his eyes and their incessant snapping open, then shut, then open. Whenever he comes to visit his pockets are always overflowing with sweets. He’d wink and pass me one when Mom wasn’t looking. His fingers and the bridge of his nose were stained with ink from where he would push his glasses up. Rarely did he speak clearly, more often he was mumbling about fantastic beasts and far off places. Mom always indulged him in his mumblings while simultaneously dismissing the ramblings. When she wasn’t looking he would pass me tiny folded notes, filled with cryptic messages akin to fortune cookies. “They will welcome you with open ar...

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